


city without seasons

by thepalebluedot



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Gen, M/M, post 2009 draft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 09:47:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6149614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepalebluedot/pseuds/thepalebluedot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It's hard to measure time in a city you don't believe in.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Kent after the draft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	city without seasons

**Author's Note:**

> aftermath of the overdose and kp being sad. one instance of irresponsible underage drinking. unbetaed. (sorry)
> 
> title from "city without seasons" by the one am radio

 

Kent is sitting on his hotel bed, staring blankly at the wall.

He isn’t crying.

It’s the night before the draft, and he isn’t crying, and he isn’t calling Jack because he doesn’t know if he’s woken up yet, and even if he has, Kent doubts he’ll have his phone.

He thinks about leaving a voicemail. He could tell Jack to wish him luck. He could tell him he misses him. He could tell him he’s fucking terrified.

He doesn’t. He thinks about it for a long time, but he doesn’t. Jack knows. Kent doesn’t want to make things worse.

 

 

The cameras all go off at once as he walks to the stage, and he doesn’t think about the flashing lights of the ambulance.

He pulls the jersey over his head and he smiles.

 

 

Vegas is fucking hot.

 

 

Kent calls Jack’s cell every couple of days for the first few weeks in Vegas. Jack never picks up. Kent isn’t sure if it’s because he can’t or if it’s because he doesn’t want to.

He calls Bob, who always picks up but can’t really answer any of his questions. He can’t bring himself to call Alicia, doesn’t know if he could talk to her without either of them ending up crying.

 

 

Eventually, he stops calling.

 

 

He’s sharing a place with one of the other rookies. The poor guy is fucking clueless; doesn’t know how to do laundry, can’t cook, always forgets to lock the door. Kent doesn’t really know what he’s doing either, doesn’t know a thing about taxes or bills, just that he has enough money now to pay them a few times over.

They manage.

There’s a lot of takeout and internet recipes and YouTube tutorials involved, and going over to Jeff’s because he can cook real actual food without fucking it up. Kent teaches him how to use the washing machine, and he dyes half his socks and undershirts red, but he isn’t bothered. Laughs about it, even. Says he can just buy more.

Kent is still getting used to that, the being able to buy more. He would’ve just worn it all tie-dyed pink.

 

 

Jack calls in the fall. He calls from rehab. At least, Kent thinks he does. He doesn’t recognize the number.

Kent doesn’t really believe that it’s September unless he looks at a calendar. Vegas is still fucking hot.

 

 

“Why now?”

“What?”

“You never picked up before. When I called. Why now?”

“I just—I figured I should’ve told you I’m okay. That I’m fine.”

“You mean you’re not dead.”

“I—What? Yes?”

“You almost died, Jack. That doesn’t count as fine.”

 

 

November flies by, and Kent doesn’t notice. He saw it flash in the corner of his eye, and then it was gone before he got a good look. It’s almost winter. The weather feels like the beginning of fall.

Kent watches December roll by in a haze of practice and games and lunch with Jeff and Mel and roadies. The temperature doesn’t drop below 50 degrees, and the only snow Kent sees is from the bus windows when they’re traveling out of state. They go to Montreal, and it’s below freezing. It’s refreshing. Kent spends half an hour out on the tiny balcony of their hotel room while Jeff squawks at him for letting in all the cold air.

He thinks about calling Jack, wonders if Jack knows he’s here. Bob was at the game, found Kent after it was over to congratulate him. He’d told him he was proud and pulled him into a hug. He’d nodded at him as he turned to leave, acknowledging the dozen other things they both want to say but can’t, not here. He’s quiet on the bus to the hotel while everyone is buzzing about Bad Bob in the stands.

“You see him, Parser?” Izzy asks, eyes bright with excitement.

Kent tries for a grin, hopes it looks genuine. “Yeah, course.”

No one brings up Jack, though, and Kent wonders if it’s because of him.

 

 

He goes home for Christmas, and the temperature is in the single digits.  

He shoves a blanket in the space under his door and opens the windows. He sleeps in fleecy sweatpants and a sweatshirt under three layers of blankets, but the chill still gets to him. He doesn’t mind.

 

 

He rings in the new year drunk off his ass in Tag’s apartment with Jeff and Mel and all the other rookies and guys on the team who didn’t go out because they’re too young to legally drink.

Only too young to legally drink in the States, Tag reminds him. He’s been legal for two years back home, and he spends half the night talking about how it’s bullshit.

They all scream the countdown at the top of their lungs, and Mel slings his arm around Kent’s shoulders and shouts happy new year in his ear, kissing him sloppily on the cheek. Mel’s an affectionate drunk. Kent is neither bothered nor surprised.

It’s all downhill from there, though; shots and noisemakers and the fucking Black Eyed Peas, and Kent ends up in the bathtub while Mel camps out next to the toilet. He also ends up with Jack’s answering machine. He leaves a slurred voicemail that he’ll definitely regret in the morning, going on about how he fucking misses him and hopes he’s okay. He might’ve told Jack he’s an asshole, somewhere in there. It’s a dick move, but he means it. He means everything he said, sappy and wasted as it was.

He says, “Fuck me,” aloud, and hits the “confirm to send” button. Then he drops his phone onto the bathroom floor while Mel stares at him pathetically from the floor with his goddamn puppy eyes.

“S’rough, dude,” he slurs, and Kent snorts, but doesn’t bother answering. His head is spinning.

It’s still fifty something degrees outside, because Vegas is always fucking hot, and Jack’s still in rehab, won’t be picking up the phone any time soon. Yet here Kent is, falling asleep in the bathtub and leaving him drunken voicemails like the sad bastard he is. Like the sad bastard he’s trying to convince himself he’s not.

 

 

“Hey, Parser, your dad’s calling,” Jeff says.

Kent frowns at him, because, well. That can’t be right. His dad doesn’t have his number. He hasn’t seen him since he was three.

“You sure it’s not yours?”

“Pretty sure, yeah,” Jeff says sarcastically, and when Kent glances over, he’s sitting in his stall with his fingers hovering over the keyboard of his own phone while looking pointedly at the ground by Kent’s feet, which, alright. Shit. Kent hadn’t even noticed when it fell.  

The screen says “Dad Bob.”

“Fuck,” Kent mutters. Then louder, to Jeff, “Not my dad.” He grabs it off the floor and heads to the hallway, ignoring Jeff’s raised eyebrows. He doesn’t know what this is about, but no matter what it’s probably a conversation he doesn’t want to have in front of the team. Nosy fuckers.

 

 

“He’s out of rehab, coaching peewee.”

“I saw.”

“I’m sorry we haven’t called.” Kent doesn’t say anything to that. He knows they’re important people, knows they’re busy. Knows they were focused on Jack. He’s sorry he hasn’t called either. Bob soldiers on, “You had a great season.”

“Thanks. I—thanks.”

“We’re always here for you,” Bob says, and that just might be the worst part. Kent knows. They care. The Zimmermanns care. Bob and Alicia were like a second set of parents; they looked out for him. Jack cares too, in his own way. At least Kent is hoping he does. But it won’t be the same. Not for a while.

“I know,” Kent says, voice hoarse. “Thank you. For everything.”

“Hang in there, Kent.”

 

 

Kent is standing in the hallway staring blankly at his phone when Jeff comes out with Kent’s bag over his shoulder.

“Not your dad,” Jeff says, and he isn’t stupid. He’s probably figured it out.

He hands over Kent’s bag and they walk out together. Kent is quiet the whole ride home, and Jeff doesn’t comment.

 

 

Kent caves. He calls, and this time, Jack picks up.

It’s awkward and stilted, and they both know there’s no going back. Obviously. But Kent still brings up Vegas.

There’s a long silence on the other end of the line.

“I miss you too, you know,” Jack says eventually, and no, Kent doesn’t fucking know, because he never bothered to say it before now. “But I can’t. I—I can’t do that, Kenny, I’m sorry.”

Kent can’t really say he’s surprised, but it still stings. It stings, but now he knows. Clean break. Stress fractures can only handle so much.

Last bit of pressure, final push. Clean break.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.” And he hangs up the phone.

 

 

“Okay,” he says, aloud, to his empty apartment. Clean break.

 

**Author's Note:**

> ok so this is probably not what anyone asked for after the update but it's all I've got right now cause it was sitting in my drafts and i decided to finish it. this is also kind of an apology for never finishing the nurseydex one, bc sometimes ur brain is just like "nah not today" every day for like 5 months, which is always fun. I do intend to finish it, but idk when, so. sorry.
> 
> Jeff is from one of the extras. I don't have an explanation for Mel, but I stole Tag's name from my friend's roommate, "Tag" being a nickname for the last name "Taggart"


End file.
